Scared To Death (Live to Tell #2)(50)
After turning off the television, polishing off the remains of a snack Meg so thoughtfully prepared, and tidying up afterward, it’s time to browse through the closets. They yield a bonanza of potential disguises, all of which fit into a large backpack hanging on the wall in a room that obviously belongs to a teenage boy. Chances are it won’t be readily missed now that summer vacation is here.
Really, this is all working out so very well.
The final order of business is to call in sick on Meg Warren’s behalf. Her illness, naturally, will be something that comes with severe hoarseness, making her voice virtually unrecognizable by whoever picks up on the other end of the line.
And—ha—whatever it is must be going around, because wouldn’t you know Roxanne Shields had the exact same thing?
“You sound horrible,” her coworker at the agency said when “Roxanne” called in sick the other day. “You need hot tea with honey and lemon.”
Yes, and at least a few days off to recover.
The call to Macy’s on Meg’s behalf goes just as well: “Feel better,” is the brief, impersonal response from the person who answers the employee line.
Meg was kind enough to leave her car keys right on the counter, so disposing of her little Toyota will be a breeze. With any luck, it’ll take a couple of days, at least, for anyone to realize something’s happened to Meg Warren—and chances are, they’ll never think to start their search here at home.
By that time, the nightmare next door at the Cavalons’ will be in full swing, and a missing middle-aged woman will be the least of the local police department’s worries.
CHAPTER EIGHT
On the west side of Broadway between Seventy-third and Seventy-fourth Streets, the eighteen-story Ansonia is, as Maman has always liked to say, as close as she could get to home without hopping an Air France flight to Charles de Gaulle.
Constructed during the Belle Epoque, the massive historical landmark—with its elaborate balconies, arches, masonry curls, and iron grillwork—evokes a romantic Parisian flair befitting the Champs-élysées.
To Elsa, as a little girl, it looked more like an oversized haunted mansion, with its looming turrets and mansard roof. There was a time when she dreaded her after-school journey from the lobby to her door. Leery of the creaky old elevators, she’d race instead up the dizzying stack of marble stairways and through the yawning maze of corridors on their floor, lined with shadowy nooks where sinister bad guys and ghosts might be lurking.
Breathless by the time she reached her own door, she’d unlock it in a hurry and slam it closed behind her—only to be scolded by Maman’s longtime maid, Monique, or by Maman herself, who had no patience for what she considered silly, childish paranoia.
Looking back now, from a maternal standpoint, Elsa finds it hard to believe that her mother hadn’t simply met her in the lobby—or better yet, at school several blocks away—to escort her safely home in the afternoons.
But, then, it was a different world back then; less threatening. And parenting wasn’t as hands-on…
And let’s face it, Maman wasn’t the most nurturing mother.
Then again, maybe she did me a favor.
Forced to deal with her daily childhood anxieties, Elsa eventually got over them. Had she been coddled, she might never have developed the strength that allowed her to survive her worst fears becoming reality in adulthood.
How ironic that Maman largely left Elsa to her own devices in the big, bad city, and nothing terrible ever happened. Yet Elsa herself—the ultra-vigilant parent—couldn’t prevent the tragic loss of her child in their own bucolic suburban backyard.
“It’s spooky here,” Renny whispers as they climb endless flights of wrought-iron-railed stairs. The elevators have been renovated, but they’re out of the question for claustrophobic Renny.
“When I was your age, I thought so, too.” Still do—but it’s probably not a good idea to admit it. Her goal is to make Renny feel safe—like they’re on a fun adventure.
A far cry from Disney World, that’s for sure.
A familiar unease steals over Elsa.
The vast stairwell is deserted, as it often seems to be, and their footsteps echo as they ascend toward the shadowy domed ceiling seventeen stories above. Once, it was probably a dazzling glass skylight, though nobody knows for sure. Presumably, it’s a relic of the Second World War, covered in blackout paint for almost seventy years.
At every floor, a wide balcony landing houses the main elevator banks, shut off from the rest of the building by closed doors.
When they reach Maman’s floor, Elsa is thoroughly winded—thanks in part to having to carry her bag and Renny’s, along with a shopping bag from the Fairway market across the street.
There’s no way I could run down these halls the way I used to, even if my life depended on it.
She cringes at the thought, and forces herself to note that the wide corridors are much less foreboding now, thanks to new carpet, wallpaper, and paint.
Still, there are twists and turns, and plenty of niches along the walls that would make perfect hiding places if someone wanted to lurk here. Heart racing—and not just from the strenuous climb—she reminds herself that whoever sent those photographs of Renny can’t possibly know they’re here.
Not only that, but it would be impossible for a random person off the street to even get up here. If Elsa hadn’t been recognized by both Ralph the doorman and Ozzy, the longtime security guard, she and Renny would never have gotten beyond the lobby.